


Manipulation Tactics

by periferal



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Flirting, Dom Jack, Dom/sub, F/F, Flirting, Paperwork, Sub Miranda Lawson, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 07:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periferal/pseuds/periferal
Summary: Jack is annoyed and horny, Miranda's just horny, things do not go how either of them expect.





	Manipulation Tactics

              **Manipulation Tactics**  
              (CW: mediocre at best bdsm etiquette. Jack/miranda.)

“Well,” Miranda says. “What do we have here?”

              Jack refuses to lift her head. Kneeling like this, hands clenched together tightly behind her back, Miranda has an excellent view of her chest. Of course, that is somewhat always the case—despite having access to other clothes, Jack seems to prefer her near-nudity. Not that Miranda minds, of course.

              She has imagined, in the privacy of her own room, door locked to wandering Commanders, removing the thin strips of fabric that allow Jack to fit the narrow definition of _clothed_.

              Reality, is, of course, always much more complicated than her imagination.

              “I want you to fuck me,” Jack says, for a second time.

              “I am aware,” Miranda says. “You made this quite clear the moment you entered my office.”

              Before she had been able to great her, Jack had fallen to her knees, body filled with the same repressed tension it always was.

              “Why aren’t you?” Jack says. “This is how this works, right? I kneel, I strip, you hit me and then we get this over with.” She speaks in harsh exhales.

              As pleasant an image as that may be, Miranda has no intention of fulfilling this particular self-destructive urge. Yet is has been far too long since she’s let herself have some fun; perhaps there is a way she can salvage this situation, without playing into a traumatized convict’s notions of sexuality and power.

              “Why not go to Shepard?” she asks. “She’s spent just as much time staring at your body as I have.”

              “She refused,” Jack says. She makes a derisive noise. “Said something about how it wouldn’t be healthy.” She glares at where Miranda’s desk meets the floor.

              Miranda leans forward, elbows on her desk.

              “So,” she says, “let us recap. You wish for me to beat you sexually, and, quote, ‘get this over with.’” She sighs. “I generally prefer my partners to enjoy themselves in the act. What is it that you want?”

              “Have you been listening?” Jack asks. “I want you—”

              “To fuck you, yes.” Jack scowls at her. “Have you ever considered I may not prefer the dominant role? From your request, I would assume not.”

              Surprise breaks Jack out of whatever affect she means to assume; she looks up at Miranda, leaning back on her heels. “What?” she asks. “But, you’re—”

              “A domineering bitch?” Miranda asks. Jack laughs; the sound is equal parts surprised and delighted, and she rocks backwards on her heels.

              “You said it, not me,” Jack says, but the tense confidence that had brought her into Miranda’s office has broken.

              “Yes,” Miranda says. “I did.” Her smirk transforms itself into a smile. “Of course, to say I have a preference either way would neglect a variety of other factors…” She trails off, deliberately looking Jack in the eyes. “In this instance, however…” She pauses again. “I want you to fuck me.” She overemphasizes the last two words.

              Jack stares at her in apparently shock. She stands abruptly. “Are you serious?” she asks, finally.

              Miranda shrugs. “Sure,” she says. “Is the idea so strange?”

              “I don’t—” She cuts herself off. “I haven’t, in a long time.”

              “Well,” Miranda says. She nods in the direction of the door. “If you wish to leave, do so, and I will never speak of this proposition to anyone, even you. If you wish to stay, well. It’s up to you, mistress.” The last word, from the intonation to the word itself, is a gamble.

              One which, it seems, pays off, as Jack’s eyes darken, and she hauls Miranda up by the arm to kiss her forcefully.

              “Get over here and strip,” she growls. Miranda smirks, the only outward sign of her glee at this turn of events.

              “Here?” she asks. “What if someone walks in?” This is play; she locked the door the moment Jack knelt and would have unlocked it upon her departure.

              “Doesn’t matter,” Jack says. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

              Removing a tight jumpsuit is a surprisingly involved process, and Miranda is excellent at many things, but stripping is not one of them, but Jack seems to appreciate the reveal of various parts of her body none the less.

              “You really are perfect, aren’t you?” Jack says. Miranda represses a wince. Jack is not the sort of person she wishes to have _that_ conversation with.

              Instead, she cups her own breasts with her hands, then trails her hands down her stomach to her hips. “Like what you see?” she asks. This isn’t the only way she likes to submit, but it’s dissonant with her normal behavior in a way she enjoys.

              “Fuck,” Jack says, eyes dark. “Hell, yes.” She grins.

              Jack glows blue, and Miranda finds herself pushed against the nearest surface, hands flung above her head; her head, she notices, is cushioned by a small biotic barrier, but the rest of her hits the wall with enough force that she might have bruises later. Excellent.

              “Don’t try to move,” Jack says. “I’m keeping you pinned.”

              “Yes, mistress,” Miranda says. She draws one leg closer to her body, bending her knee slightly. She could break out of the biotic hold—Jack does not seem to be using her full power, which Miranda appreciates—but being bratty is more fun.

              “That,” Jack says, stalking over to her, “looked like moving.”

              “What if is was?” Miranda asks.

              “I told you not to,” Jack says. “Just now.”

              She reaches her hand out to the side, a blueish-purple cord appearing in her hand from nothing. “Just a trick I learned,” Jack says. “Along the way.” She smirks. “I hope you like shocks, ‘cause I like giving ‘em.”

              Miranda cries out as the lash hits her across her breasts; the shock and sting of the blow goes right between her legs. She groans.

              “You’re going to do as I say?”

              “Yes, mistress,” she says. She tries to break the hold on her left arm and is stopped by another hit. She arches her back, crying out again.

              That movement is not punished.

              Jack places her free hand on the inside of Miranda’s thigh. “I can’t believe this,” she says, staring intently into Miranda’s eyes. She looks, for a moment, as though she expects Miranda to disappear.

              Miranda does not reply.

              She yelps in surprise when the biotic hold keeping her pressed against the wall disappears.

              “I thought you said you were going to fuck me?” she demands petulantly. This is not how she expected things to go.

              Jack smirks. “No, you said you wanted me to fuck you.” She takes a moment to stare at Miranda. “Go, lie down on the bed.”

              She lies on her back, legs spread and arms above her head.

              Jack straddles her, still dressed. She rakes blunt nails across the skin just under Miranda’s breasts, before moving her hand down the rest of her stomach. Miranda shivers, letting her eyes drift shut.

              She whimpers when Jack pinches her on the inside of her thigh. Miranda expects her to command her to open her eyes, but instead she just continues to run her hands down Miranda’s body in ways that feel really good.

              “How?” Miranda asks. “I thought—” She had expected Jack to be as rough as she had asked Miranda to be; this, especially compared to how they’d begun, is just… nice.

              “The last time I was on top,” Jack said, “was a while ago, but it was in a relationship that was almost… nice?” She laughs. “I mean, they turned out to be shitty assholes, but for a while there…” Another laugh. “Why am I telling this to you?”

Miranda is, for the first time in a while, unsure how to answer a question.

She cries out when Jack slaps her on the inside of her thigh. “Anyway,” she continues, “it doesn’t matter.”

She finally ( _finally_ ) rubs two fingers against Miranda’s clit. She does not quicken her pace, however, and Miranda finds herself begging. “Please,” she says, “you said—”

Jack puts a hand on her mouth. “We’ve already been over this,” she says. “But, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

Miranda gasps with relief as Jack pushes two fingers inside her, moving much faster than she has been previously. She bucks upwards without meaning to, meeting Jack’s thrusts until she’s shuddering, unable to control herself as pleasure courses through her body.

When Jack takes her hands away, Miranda lies breathless for a moment. She finally opens her eyes to see Jack watching her, a strange expression on her face.

“Do you want me to—” Miranda starts to ask.

Jack shakes her head. “I’m good,” she says. “You look so different, like this.”

“I’m generally clothed when we talk to each other,” Miranda says, barely trying to conceal her smile.

“No, I mean, relaxed,” Jack says. “I didn’t know that was possible for you.”

Miranda laughs. “Oh,” she says. “Yes, I suppose that’s a fair point.”

They stare at each other.

“I thought you’d be more than happy to hurt me,” Jack says.

Miranda shakes her head. “I’m not in the habit of deliberating worsening others’ trauma,” she says. “I may find you profoundly irritating; I am also unwilling to be the agent of another’s self-harm.”

“Just an agent of harm in general,” Jack says, but there’s less malice to the insult than usual. “Thanks,” she says.

“Of course,” Miranda says. “That biotic whip—”

“Nice, isn’t it? I can use it more, if you want.”

Miranda is genuinely surprised at her words. “Would you like to do this again?” she asks.

“Fuck yes,” Jack says. “Do you have any idea how hot it is to have _you_ , of all people, calling _me_ mistress?”

“Noted,” Miranda says. She sighs. “Let me up, please.”

Jack clambers off the bed. “Aren’t you going to bed?” she asks.

“I’m going to shower and get back to work,” Miranda says.

Jack stares at her incredulously. “You just had sex! Isn’t that a good enough reason to, I don’t know, take at least a small break?”

Miranda shrugs. “Not particularly,” she says. “There’s always more to be done—Shepard is very good at creating paperwork for other people—and you didn’t exactly show up close to when I was generally asleep.”

“Damn,” Jack says. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

Jack’s gone when Miranda exits the shower. Miranda is fine with that; this was a strange hook up, ending and beginning with Jack’s characteristic abruptness.

“That sounds about right,” Miranda mutters to herself. She goes back to her desk, once more fully dressed. She does not have any problems focusing on the task at hand whatsoever.


End file.
